


Sick Purchase

by Sleepless_Malice



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Public Nudity, Sexual Content, Shopping, Slave Market, Slave Trade, Violence, and this is the outcome, angbang, graphic description of violence, seriously I will go to hell for this, since Maedhros’s escape Mairon has a certain lack of elvish playthings, the prompt was: 'angbang + shopping'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8736643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: Languidly, in a moment of Melkor’s unawareness, Mairon rolls off him, propping himself up on one elbow. Doubt still hazes his speech. “In Angband?”Melkor tsks in disapproval. “Foolish thing,” he says in admonishment. “Of course not. In the vale of Sirion, so get yourself dressed, and be quick about it.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGaGalion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGaGalion/gifts).



> written for the Xmas prompt nr. 16 (shopping) on tumblr

**Sick Purchase**

*****

“Shopping?” One eyebrow delicately raised, Mairon repeats the words said by Melkor in post-orgasmic haze. Today, well no, this isn’t entirely correct, as in the past few days, Melkor’s mood is extraordinarily good. So good that several alarms begin to ring in Mairon’s head, and carefully he inquires why that is. To no avail, as Melkor wouldn’t say more on the matter except giving him a broad smirk (naturally, the self-indulgent smiles startle Mairon all the more). Until now.

“Yes,” Melkor booms, repeating the words as his fingers weave into Mairon’s hair. “We are going shopping.”

Languidly, in a moment of Melkor’s unawareness, Mairon rolls off him, propping himself up on one elbow. Doubt still hazes his speech. “In Angband?”

_Hardly._

Melkor tsks in disapproval. “Foolish thing,” he says in admonishment. “Of course not. In the vale of Sirion, so get yourself dressed, and be quick about it.”

 

*****

He follows his master onto the market, which is nothing but dirt and filth, and sand, golden with red veins of freshly spilled blood – and elves, stripped bare of even the smallest cloth of modesty. Some are nearly unharmed (at least the parts visible to the common eye), whilst others are barely able to stand on their own feet. It’s only by iron chains biting into their skin that they stand upright. Towards one of those miserably treated ones, Melkor steps forth, his hand darting out to inspect the elf’s most private parts with ungentle fingers.

“Have I promised you too much?” he asks, looking over his shoulder towards where Mairon stands.

The answer Melkor craves is obvious to him. “No,” he lies, shaking his head as his gaze wanders from face to face, even if he doesn’t find the elves all too appealing. Those standing here are plain, low-bred, _ordinary_ _peasants_. An insult to his eyes, good enough for the growing crowd here, for orcs and other vile creatures. They are here mostly due to curiosity rather than being able to even purchase a disembodied finger, Mairon thinks in disapproval. Nevertheless, they are taking great delight in the obscene show.

Shopping, as Melkor phrased it previously, naturally is a lie; because it means _buying_ something, which is ridiculous, as these elves, standing in lines like livestock on the market, are already Melkor’s to do with them as he pleases. To Melkor, the journey from Angband’s gloominess is nothing more than a pleasure trip; yet another sort of cruel entertainment, although Mairon has to confess that the nude and manhandled elvish bodies do have a certain appeal, even if the orcs cruelties lack the delicacy of his own methods of torture.

Internally, Mairon sighs. Since the unforeseen escape of his most cherished elvish plaything, there is a certain lack of appealing elvish flesh in the domed halls of Angband.

“What about this one, little one?” he hears Melkor murmur, excitement ringing in his voice.

Mairon takes a quick look before he shakes his head. No bruises adorn the fair skin, and the elf’s eyes are obediently directed to the floor. This one, isn’t to his liking, not at all. Mairon has always liked the feisty ones, the challenge that comes with their reluctant nature. This one isn’t feisty, not even remotely.

They continue to stride through the alley of naked bodies, grey dust swirling behind them as they walk, when a cage with three elves catches Mairon’s attention. “These?” he asks Melkor’s ugly servants standing near-by.

An orc steps forth, apparently their leader, and bows deeply before them. “Not safe to touch them,” the creature snarls, showing fresh bruises on his scarred forearm. “Feisty, rebellious scum. Best to be burned alive.”

At that, Mairon’s heart jumps in frantic excitement, only faintly noticing Melkor’s scolding voice. “Burned? A waste of potential!” The description of these elves perfectly matches his interests. With an elegant motion of his hand he waves the creature’s concern away. “Let me see myself.”

“Unwise, my lords.” The orc shakes his head, but steps out of Mairon’s way nevertheless.

With carefully calculated motions, slow and graceful, the Maia steps towards them, making certain that each one sees the delight shimmering in his eyes. He circles around the cage like a wild animal around its prey, studying the imperceptible shivers running over the slaves bodies with narrowed eyes. Though small in built, the elf on the far right pulls on the chains, muttering foreign curses under his breath.

 _‘Too small, too delicate.’_ Mairon’s mental notes read, translating to: this one will only last a single game.

His eyes shift towards the elf standing in the middle of the cage. It doesn’t take long until a disdainful sneer falls from Mairon’s lips. _‘Even in the gloominess of Angband, entirely unpleasing for the eye. An insult to my tastes.’_

After that, he takes a step to the left, his face lightening up immediately. Despite the filth tarnishing the elf’s body, Mairon sees the beauty that lies underneath, the challenge shining from his swollen eyes. Standing upright, he even might be of the same height as he, perhaps even slightly taller.

The decision is an easy one. “Bring this one forth,” demands the Maia, pointing towards the elf with dusted blond hair who holds his gaze without flinching. He is enticed, fascinated by the way the curses spill from the elf’s bruised lips – he must possess him, must cherish him in exquisite cruelty.

The orc’s voice is nervous and doubtful. “My lords?”

Melkor, always the impatient one, answers instead of Mairon. “You heard him well. Do as he says, or your misery shall be worse than the elf’s.” A sly grin accompanies his speech.

The creature shuffles hastily towards the cage, hesitating before it takes the final step to unlock the iron chain. Instead of opening the lock, he is bending down to a casket standing near-by. Mairon snickers when the orc protects his hands with iron gauntlets, and takes his blade in one of his hands before he opens the cage and grabs for the elf’s arm. With cruel violence, crude and savage, and entirely beautiless, a violence of the sort the Maia doesn’t approve of at all, the orc drags the struggling and snarling elf before him.

For mere moments Mairon watches the display until he tires of it, sending his hand flying to the elf’s cheek so hard that bone shatters beneath the skin. “That shall do,” he hisses, adding more gently afterwards when he softly rubs the abused cheek of the elf. “What is your name?”

From there, the finger wanders under the elf’s chin to tilt his head up to get a better look at his face. The elf regards him with wide eyes, bright blue irises with streaks of grey, which are framed with burning red, the consequence of more than one beating. In tenderness of the cruel sort, the Maia’s fingers dip lower towards the elf’s chest, relishing in the flinch of muscle beneath taut skin.

Once, before Minas Tirith’s fall brought him here, he perhaps was a warrior, Mairon muses, perhaps one of Orodreth’s private guards; adorned with delicate jewels and rich finesses, hair glowing in the brightness of the sun when sheen of sweat covered his well-trained body in the training grounds. An exquisite image, all too pleasing and distracting, begins to form in Mairon’s mind, and he struggles to rid himself of it again.

His inquiry is met with silence. “Very well, then,” says Mairon with indifference, shrugging his shoulders. “Toys do not necessarily need a name to be addressed. For the past thousands of years leashes and endearments were sufficient enough. I doubt you shall be an exception to this.”

“Laicano,” at last the elf says, blood trickling out of his mouth as he speaks.

“Thank you for the information,” Mairon’s lips curl into a malicious smile. “It is always nice to have personalized collars.”

The tremor, which is shaking the elf’s body inflames a spark of lust in Mairon, eyes glittering in anticipation, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Melkor.

“Bring this one to my lieutenant’s chambers in a fortnight, cleaned and fed, well-dressed in silks and iron, and: **_unharmed_** ,” instructs Melkor, wrapping a strong, possessive arm around Mairon’s waist. “The others go into the mines, unfed, as resources are sparse these days.”

Delight and gratitude flickers in Mairon’s eyes as he turns to face Melkor. “Thank you, master.”

With undisguised longing Melkor looks at him, letting his fingertips sink into the Maia’s skin hard enough to bruise. “I am right in my assumption that you know of ways to repay my kindness, am I not?”

*

**Author's Note:**

> I am on tumblr, feel free to say hello over there: [feanope](http://www.feanope.tumblr.com)


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